


I Love You

by StaminaOverlook



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms
Genre: Dubiously Consensual Blow Jobs, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-12
Updated: 2020-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:26:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23116192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StaminaOverlook/pseuds/StaminaOverlook
Summary: A confession gone wrong.
Relationships: Christine Daaé/Erik | Phantom of the Opera
Comments: 14
Kudos: 55





	I Love You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [phantomofthetrashcan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/phantomofthetrashcan/gifts).



> A gift for Claire. This phic is written in inspiration by her amazing drawings. I'd add them to this phic, but mobile AO3 doesn't have this feature. So I'll add them when I figure out how to do it!

"I love you."

Those three words were what had started it all.

Three words, given in an attempt to gain freedom.

Christine trembled in terror as she observed his reaction.

They were sitting in the little drawing-room, on the couch, — she allowed him to sit next to herself, no matter how improper that was — both of them perusing various literature, unable to stomach even a single line.

A week, one horrible week had passed since she had torn away his mask and burned it, one week of constant horror, of futile attempts to please her captor, who was now staring at her as if she had grown two additional heads.

She took in a shaky breath and felt herself shudder beneath his gaze.

_ "What?" _ cut his voice through the air, exasperated, its tone sharp and unpleasant, like a slap to her face.

She winced. Did she have to repeat it? She did not mean what she was saying… No, she didn't think she was ever capable of loving somebody like  _ him _ . She only hoped he would believe her and let her go. Oh, she hoped that, someday, poor Erik would forgive her for this horrible lie!

She fisted her hands in her dress. "I… I love you, Erik," she managed, looking him in the eye. 

His face was disgusting, contorted like that in a grimace of shock and raging disbelief. Of course, she got used to it after a while, but it didn't make it look any less ugly. She swallowed against the lump in her throat.

His bony hands with unnaturally long and thin fingers let go of the tome they were clutching and lowered it onto the surface of the couch next to his lap. Then one palm planted itself onto the seat, as its owner slid closer to Christine, leaning over her with his skeletal frame; the expensive coal-black suit he wore hung from it like from a rack.

_ "Say it," _ ground out the Voice,  _ "Say it again!" _

Christine shrunk away from him, unable to withstand it anymore; as soon as the thought to flee crossed her mind, one hand shot out and caught her arm around her bicep, ice-cold fingers digging into the soft, warm flesh.

_ "You say you love me, Christine, yet you run! Always running, like the little frightened mouse you are!" _ The second hand grasped her other shoulder— when did he get so close?!— and he shook her violently; a few curls escaped her tight bun and bounced around her, tickling her face and her neck; her round glasses slid from her nose, their bridge pressing uncomfortably into her cheeks.

Closing her eyes, she flailed and fought all she could, trying her best to get away from him; it was futile, she only managed to claw his jacket open and place a weak punch to his gut that, even to her, seemed more like a gentle tap.

Golden eyes shining with madness met her terrified stare.

_ "Stop fighting and say it! Repeat the damned words, woman!" _

"I- I love you," she sobbed out into the heated space between them.

His nasal cavity undulated with his heavy breath mere inches away from her face.

And then he pushed her forward; her back collided with the surface of the couch. Panting, she picked her glasses up from her breast and put them back on.

He was towering over her, standing on his knees atop the couch, upper face cast in shadow, his irises flaring with yellow.

_ "You lie," _ he hissed, and Christine felt tears well in the corners of her eyes.

"I- I do not! E- Erik, I—"

_ "SILENCE!" _ his Voice boomed; the walls of the little subterranean house shook and trembled.  _ "You cannot lie to me! I have lived long enough to know how to tell a fraud from the truth, and YOU, my dear— you are an awful liar." _

Sobbing, with tears streaming down her face, she turned onto her side. "N-no, Erik, I— I'm sorry, I— I didn't want to, I— I love you, p-please— believe me—"

As she was about to get off the couch, his hands grabbed her again and shoved her off; with a tearful yelp, she collapsed onto the lush orient carpet below.

_ "If you say you love me, then…" _

She pulled herself up, propping herself on her weak arms, only to see his polished shoes plant themselves into the carpet right in front of her. Her eyes slowly slid up his long, thin legs, to find him standing tall and straight, with his arms crossed on his chest, jacket hanging open and— oh God, have mercy!— his trousers unbuttoned, with the white shirt peeking from the opening. They must have become undone when she was clawing at him just a moment ago— or did he open them himself? Yes, it must be it. There was a swell just beneath, as the cloth stained to contain something. She stared at it, frozen either in horror, or morbid fascination.

_ "...Swear your love," _ the Voice said, and its final tone struck her on the head like a heavy gavel. 

She felt dizzy, as if she was about to faint any second now; her face felt terribly hot as she realized the implications of what she just said, professed to him… and the meaning of the strain in his trousers. What did he want from her? No, no, it couldn’t be— And yet, it made so much sense—

_ "If you really love me, like you say… then you will not deny your beloved a kiss, will you?" _ the Voice mocked, and Christine felt its effect on her mind— or was it her own emotion? No, surely not, it was  _ him _ — all  _ him— _

It was  _ his _ devilish voice that made her reach out and fist her hands in the fabric of his trousers, clutching at his calves and knees and tugging herself closer to him. "P-please, Erik, no— I can't—"

_ "Tsk tsk tsk, awh, my poor girl," _ crooned the angelic Voice, still mocking in its gentility,  _ "Always running her little mouth and getting herself into trouble. Are your lips too good for someone you love? Come on, it's just a kiss. One single kiss, for your loved one." _

The air pulsed with anticipation. She looked up, and their gazes interlocked; Erik’s expression was unreadable. He turned around and strode for the couch, lowering his lithe form onto the seat. He crossed his arms on his chest yet again, but made no movement to button either his jacket or his trousers; it was as if he had forgotten about them.   
  
_ “I don’t have all day,” _ he said grimly. Her nostrils flared; how could he possibly be so nonchalant about this when she herself felt so overheated?! He wanted a kiss _ — _ a  _ kiss _ — a kind which was only given by wives to their husbands, or by whores to their clients.

_ Why wouldn’t he button up his trousers, damn it?! _

His eyes stared at her, challenging, waiting.

Christine launched herself forward, feeling a new set of tears trickle down her damp cheeks; she put her hands on his knees, feeling the bones beneath the fabric and skin, and raised her eyes to meet his. Now, or never. If this was what it took for her to get out of this awful place… well, it was worth it. Better this, than a life underground.

She had never done this before. She only knew the details, and the act itself seemed disgusting to her. Who in the world would ever willingly do something like this? And to think only— for Erik?!

Erik’s hairless brow furrowed, thin lips growing into something that resembled a pout.  _ “I am waiting,” _ he said.

Steeling herself, she slid her hands up his inner thighs, stopping right before the opening in his trousers. Erik’s eyes widened, but he made no move to stop her.   
  
_ “So this is how it is, then?” _ murmured he, drawing a heavy breath, as doubt crept into Christine’s mind.  _ “This is what your love is? Whore.” _

Before the horror of realization dawned upon her, one hand was fisted in her hair, tugging at her scalp; through tears she saw his palm reaching into his strained trousers and take out his member, an angry red, thick rod of hot, pulsing flesh; Christine’s mouth was forced open, and she was shoved onto the cock, gagging on the bitter taste and the sheer size of it.   
  
Erik relaxed in his seat, curling his arms back on his chest.  _ “Continue,” _ ordered the angelic Voice, and she could do nothing but obey.   
  
It was difficult; her jaw ached from such strain, her gag reflex was kicking in if she took in too much of him, her glasses pressed uncomfortably into her nose, and her spit trailed down her chin, not to mention the obscene smell that hung in the air and filled her nostrils. Erik was absolutely silent as she was trying to please him the best she could, only giving a hum of acknowledgement every now and then. However, she knew by the burning sensation that his gaze never left her.

The veins on his cock pulsed beneath her tongue, and she licked the liquid that leaked from his tip and streaked down the searing hot flesh; her tear-stained cheeks felt impossibly hot, her brow was furrowed, her hair in complete disarray. She pulled back for a small break, looking up at Erik and yet not really seeing anything, and spent a few seconds panting, as her little hands fisted themselves in his trousers. When she took his too-big member back into her mouth, suckling on it with all her might, she felt a cold, bony hand touch her temple and gently tuck a stray curl behind her ear.

_ “My good girl…” _ she heard him croon, and she pushed herself forward, piercing herself with his giant cock, feeling the tip of him go down her throat, eager to give him as much pleasure as she could.

The ache in her jaw was becoming unbearable; she was tense, far too tense, and the pain radiated with waves down her throat, up her cheeks, building up pressure behind her eyeballs, in her brain.   
  
“‘M- sh-shorry—” she mumbled as she pulled back again; she released his enormous cock from her mouth and it bobbed near her face, fully erect and eager for her lips; thin strands of drool hung from its round tip. “E-Erik, I-I—” she sobbed, but couldn’t form the sentence; her used mouth hung open, and her tired, strained tongue was unwilling to move.   
  
_ “Oh, poor thing,” _ his Voice purred, its charms ever so potent; he took his cock by its base and slapped Christine’s cheek with its hard length, as she barely registered the obscene wet sounds the action produced.  _ “My poor, poor girl. I think that is enough kisses for now.” _

He began to tuck himself away, trying to fit his impressive girth into his trousers. Christine blinked stupidly at the disappearing member; her mind absently registered her spit glistening on his cock in the firelight.   
  
His hands snaked beneath her armpits and lifted her, unresistant like a doll. He placed her atop his lap and embraced her; he lovingly adjusted the glasses on her nose and took a handkerchief out of his breast pocket, gently wiping the spit, tears and precum from her cheeks and chin.

She blinked at him in confusion, and saw the strangest smile playing on his lips.

_ “Aren’t you beautiful? My darling Christine… my love.” _

Was he in one of his moods? she questioned herself. Erik’s expression changed the slightest bit.

_ “You have given me a kiss. Can Erik give you a kiss, as well? Accept a kiss from your beloved, as you say.”  _ Too tired to protest, she barely nodded. Erik’s golden eyes widened; his palm slid upwards to gently cup the nape of her neck.

He reached in, and she felt the slightest pressure on the very top of her forehead.

That gesture shocked her so much that she froze entirely in his arms, pondering what she had done to herself… and Erik. Oh, poor, unhappy Erik! What had she done?

_ “I asked you for one kiss. One kiss bestowed upon my cursed ugliness.” _

Her hand shot out and grasped at his shoulder; to his and her own surprise, she pulled him close to her and slanted her lips against his, feeling another wave of tears overwhelm her. She fisted her fingers in his sparse hair, moved her full, warm lips against his thin, cold, frozen ones, whispering, “Forgive me, oh— forgive me—” between the shaky intakes of breath. “Please, forgive me, Erik—”   
  
His head tilted, and he slowly began reciprocating; his jaw moved against her, and she moaned into the kiss. Some little part of her brain was shocked — how could she produce such a weird, wanton sound? — but she found it quite difficult to dwell on it when his skillful tongue licked her lips and delved between them into the cavern of her mouth, eagerly exploring it.

His mouth was abruptly torn from hers; before she could protest, — protest?! She clearly lost her mind, — she felt his thin lips move to her cheek, to her chin, and downwards, to the underside of her jaw, as he bestowed heated kisses upon her flushed skin; his hands made quick work of the buttons on her neck, and his lips moved to explore the newly uncovered territory; she whimpered, and she felt him smile against the pulse point just below her ear.   
  
_ “Mine,” _ he purred, and passed his tongue over a patch of her skin; she gasped at the sensation.  _ “Mine, mine, mine, mine, mine, mine, mine, mine—” _ he murmured the word like a prayer between the kisses; she grasped at his shoulders, pulling at his jacket, and wondered, not for the first time, just what she had unleashed upon herself.

All of a sudden, she was seized by her bodice; he whipped her around, and she landed on her stomach, splayed across his knees in a most indecent manner with her bum facing upwards, laid out for his perusal.

"Wh- wha— Erik?!—" she yelped, exasperated, but her cries fell on deaf ears. Erik began rolling up her dress with her petticoats at a torturously slow pace, bit by bit, feeling the shape of her legs beneath the fabric of her stockings, and she trembled. 

_ "My Christine is such a good girl," _ his Voice hummed into her ear, and she shuddered with an emotion she didn't dare name.  _ "She kissed her ugly Erik… twice. She loves him, doesn't she? Say you love me again. I want to hear it." _

His hands kneaded her lower thighs; her heart hammered in her chest, and her breath came in short pants. "I- I love you," she sobbed against her better judgement. In return, she got a mindful hum, and his hands continued their pilgrimage up her thighs. She should get up, she should move, but she couldn't! She was frozen in place, clutching at the couch pillow beneath her cheek as if it could save her from the onslaught of his hands— oh God,  _ his hands!  _

_ "My Christine loves me. Erik, too, loves his Christine so much. He wants to make her feel good. Christine will trust her Erik to make her feel good, yes?" _

She felt terror and excitement bubble up in her chest at the insinuation behind those words, sung in that silky voice of his; absently, she felt herself nodding, and, looking back at it, she wasn't quite sure what prompted her to consent.

She could  _ feel _ the grin on his face.

He pulled her petticoats to the side, revealing her bloomers. His hands came down upon her arse cheeks and started kneading the soft flesh, covered in cotton. Christine gasped and closed her eyes shut; her bum involuntarily twitched and buckled into his hands.

_ “Ah, so soft. Such a whore for her Erik, my little Christine— are you this soft everywhere else? Mind if Erik checks?” _ And his hands pulled the bloomers down her bum, down her thighs and off; she felt the rush of air upon her tender skin, and before she could utter a word, one palm pressed down on her nape, holding her in place, and the other came down  _ hard _ upon her arse cheek, the slap resonating in her ears. She cried out, shocked, as her mouth formed a perfect “O”; then came another slap, and another one, and Christine writhed upon her maestro’s knees, her cries softer now, more sensual. His hand stopped right before touching the inflamed skin, and delved between her buttocks, long digits reaching and curling about her cunt.

_ "Oh, my God, Christine," _ gasped his Voice, as she whimpered through tight-closed lips,  _ "You are wet…" _

She felt his fingers part her folds without any resistance, her abundant slickness a testament to her arousal — and, God, she was mightily aroused! She could have never expected herself to enjoy this sort of thing, but her body’s response was undeniable, and—   


A pad of his finger found her clitorus, the secret pearl she sometimes touched during the most unbearable nights after her lessons with her Angel of Music, and a shock unlike any struck her body, making her tense up and emit a most senseless cry of desire.

_ “A woman only gets so wet and ready for somebody she loves, Christine…” _

His hand disappeared from between her arse cheeks, and suddenly she was holstered into a sitting position; the fabric slid out from beneath Erik's palms, and Christine somehow found herself hanging between his bony knees, with her hands clutching at his trousers and her unclad sex pressed to his, with her thighs spread open, hugging his narrow hips. She whispered a plea and looked back only to see Erik lifting his hands and slapping her bum once again, leaving angry red marks upon her skin; she moaned and cried yet again, tears welling in her eyes, and she felt the pain go straight to the place where she ached the most, her inner muscles twitching and spasming in agony.

As she was suffering in this delirium, Erik pulled her to himself, and her back collided with his hard chest. She leaned forward and reached behind herself, frantically tugging at the buttons on her back — his hands slapped hers away and he himself began unbuttoning her dress, as quickly as possible; upon the fabric giving way, he began tugging at the strings of her corset, almost tearing the contraption apart in his eagerness to see what was underneath all these lavish fabrics that  _ he _ had purchased for  _ her _ . She wriggled her arms out of the sleeves and grasped the sides of her dress; suddenly, she felt his big, bony palms cover hers.

Looking into each other’s eyes, together, they yanked the bodice down, and she lifted her bum a little to be able to take the dress fully off — it was discarded upon the floor, and her corset and petticoats promptly followed. Erik pressed his unmasked face into the crook of her neck and inhaled, producing an obscene sound; Christine threw her head back, shivering at the feel of his nose-hole touching her skin — such a morbid, yet fascinating experience.

_ "She-Devil… how you make me burn…" _

His hand found her clit and slapped at it, fingers delving into her folds. They tore at her entrance, stretching, invading, as her passionate cries echoed in the small drawing-room; she felt herself rising higher and higher on the wave of pure ecstasy, she saw heaven, she was right at its door, just a little bit more, a little bit! She bucked her hips into his hand, and as soon as the first spasms shook her eager body, the hand was torn away from her, and she was left floating, teetering on the edge of her orgasm, as the wave that was about to crush her inevitably receded.

The wet fingers slapped her thighs, grasped her waist and moved her from her maestro's lap to the divan, where she was turned to lay on her stomach; her backside was holstered upwards, and she felt him moving behind her. A small part of her mind knew what lay ahead, but she was far too gone to protest or move away — instead, she let out a sweet moan and wantonly pushed her hips into Erik's grasp, craving the release he had teased her with.

The man released a low groan of pleasure at her eagerness, and the big, strong hands squeezed her arse cheeks, spidery fingers digging into the soft flesh. They slapped at her tender rear, kneaded it and spread it, and, at last, Christine felt the searing hot flesh of his big cock touch her sex, their fluids mixing. The impossibly long, thick core of him slid into her folds, parting them, past her entrance to touch her clitorus; it slowly moved forth and backwards, rubbing at her, until Christine's legs were shaking with want and the need to come.

"E— Erik, Erik, I—" she wheezed, clutching at the nearest pillow she could reach, as his cock stilled at her entrance.

_ "What do good girls say, Christine? What do good girls say when they want something?" _ the Angel's voice asked, its tendrils tightening about her cunt.

"P— Please!" she sobbed, trying to angle her hips closer, but his hands held her thighs firmly at a distance.

She felt him lean over her, his voice now dangerously close to her ear.  _ "Beg," _ he said, and his hot breathing brushed at her cheek.

"Please, Erik— God, I— I beg you, Erik! P-please!—"

And his cock thrust into her, sliding deep within with perfect ease; he buried himself within her cunt to the very hilt, pulled away and slammed back in. Christine screamed at the sudden intrusion, feeling her throat getting sore.

Their hoarse moans and grunts were now punctuated by the slapping of their crotches and the sound of his cock entering her core again and again, with increasing ferocity,  _ slurp slurp slurp _ against her wet cunt. A palm came down hard on her arse, and, with the last thrust, she fell apart like a dying star. Her entire body convulsed, every nerve exploding with pleasure. She lost herself at that moment in the ocean of feeling, her mind reeled, and she absently felt her body twitch, desperately push back, again and again, her core contracting painfully around the hard length buried deep inside of her, milking it of all its worth as her blood roared deafeningly in her ears.

The violent moment has come and gone, however, and after what felt like eternity her cries receded, her body seized convulsing, and she became acutely aware of the dull pain in her muscles and the movements of the man behind her, who was nearing his crisis.

A few pumps, and he finished, moaning out in such a sensual manner that Christine felt goosebumps rise on her sweaty, heated skin.

Both of them were struggling to catch their breath; the now flaccid length slid from Christine's used opening, and with a wince she felt the cool liquids running down her thighs.

She dropped down upon the couch, wanting to curl up into a little bun, fall asleep and never, ever wake up. Behind her, Erik stood up and disappeared somewhere. She was too tired to raise her head and see where he had gone. A part of her wondered if he would ever return.

In a minute or so, she felt a cool touch upon her naked hip. She jerked and turned, eyes settling on Erik's unmasked face. His expression was strangely blank, and Christine looked down at his hands.

In his palm, he held a handkerchief.

Christine pursed her lips and turned away to face the back of the divan. Erik appeared to take that as an invitation, and his cold hands gently sneaked between her thighs, wiping her skin clean.

Then, a soft blanket was gently draped over her shoulders; she recognized the duvet she covered herself with each night spent in his house.

Erik was silent for some time.  _ "...Would Christine like a bath? Erik will prepare one for her." _

"Don't feel like you owe me anything," she spit out, glaring into the fabric in front of her.

All she got in response was a sigh and a sound of his retreating footsteps, light like a cat's.

Now, in his absence, she chastised herself. Was that necessary? She felt tired again.

She snuggled into the blanket, other doubts now clouding her mind. Was she pregnant now? Must she marry in order to maintain dignity? What if the baby was going to inherit Erik's deformity? At this thought, she shuddered in disgust and fear, and then remembered that such a reaction made her no better than Erik's own mother. She had heard snippets of stories about her from him, at times when he was at his worst, raving and crying, and none of them were pleasant — honestly, she'd had half a thought that he had killed the woman, — and to be compared to her was the most terrifying insult.

She wondered if killing herself would be the easiest way out. Her mind went back to the underground lake, just a few leaps and a heavy door away, and the thin scissors she'd hid in her dresser, beneath her underwear…

She didn't notice the hot tears streaming down her cheeks.

A pair of strong hands suddenly picked her limp body from the couch. Wrapping her tighter in the blanket, they carried her through the drawing-room, through her room, to her bathroom, where the small marble tub was filled to the brim with hot water. She was lowered onto the floor, and the blanket was taken from her shoulders.

Erik was fretting over her, talking to himself — or was he talking to her? — darting here and there in preparation for her bath, and she simply stood there, feeling vulnerable in her nudity.

Crossing her arms over her naked breasts, she raised one leg and stepped into the bathtub; the hot water felt cleansing, sending delicious shivers along her skin.

She was fully situated in the tub now; she noticed that Erik hadn't disappeared as he usually does. She absently wondered if he wanted to bathe with her, and felt a flash of heat sear her insides at the image that came up in her mind.

However, he made no move to either undress, or get into the bathtub with her; instead, he picked up a sponge and started rubbing soapy water into her skin, dutifully scrubbing every inch clean.

She just sat there while he bathed her like a child; his gentle hands washed her hair, trailed over her skin. They pressed gently into it, working out the tension; she couldn't help but give small moans of pleasure at how good it felt.

His caresses stilled on her shoulders.  _ "...Christine loves her Erik. That is everything Erik has ever wanted. Christine is now free to come and go as she pleases… if she promises to visit her Erik in a fortnight." _

And in front of her eyes, his hands held up a key.

Her eyes lit up. Freedom. Freedom! At last!

Slowly, she reached out and grasped the key with her hand. It was a strange thing made of heavy dark metal, with ornate bas-reliefs carved into its surface and a weird, three-dimensional shape instead of a head.

_ "I cast it for you, and only for you, Christine. Erik has never made a copy of his own key." _

She heard him sigh and stand up; her eyes were still glued to the key, unbelieving of the reality of what they were seeing.

_ "However, Erik doesn't want you to go just yet. Christine's company is far too flattering for him. She will stay with Erik until after Shrovetide, if that is acceptable." _

Christine gulped. Only a few more days… That wasn't such a bad thing. She had the key now.

She had finally won his trust back.

So she said, "Yes, Erik. I will stay."

He seemed to find it agreeable.

_ "Tomorrow, Christine… Tomorrow night. Would you want to accompany me on a small promenade? We will ride in a brougham through Paris, and I will show you all the favourite parts of the city that I like to frequent." _

At this, she turned her head to look up at him. "I will accompany you."

Erik lowered his head, looking almost guilty.  _ "Christine doesn't have to go if she would rather stay inside." _

Her breath hitched. She held the key close to her breast. "I… I  _ would _ like to go, Erik. I haven't been outside for so long. I miss the fresh air."

Erik's hideous line of a mouth twitched in something that resembled a gruesome smile, and he turned around, facing the door.  _ "I will leave you to soak. Supper is going to wait for you in the kitchen… And your obedient servant will be in his room, composing, if you ever need anything. Good night, Christine." _

And with that, he was out of the door.

Christine relaxed against the back of the tub, letting out a sigh. Feeling the soreness in her muscles, and the weight of the key in her hands, she realized that nothing would be the same ever again.


End file.
